Kitty Raises Hell

ifrit? Did the TSA manual even cover something like this?

With great precision, he sliced through the duct tape around the box. Watching, I bounced in place a little. Ben was a picture of aggravating serenity. Maybe he had some lawyer-fu he could pull out at the last minute to avert disaster.

The TSA agent dug through the wadded-up newspaper and drew out the next box. Holding it, he eyed us, as if inviting us to share the great secret we were hiding. We didn’t oblige him.

“Fragile?” he said.

“Very,” I said.

He cut through the tape on the second box. I winced, thinking maybe it would explode. It didn’t. Ben wasn’t quite the picture of calm anymore; he clenched his hands behind his back. His courtroom face didn’t reveal anything. I would have to learn from his example, because I was fidgeting. I was this close to grabbing the box from the guy and running. But that would be so very bad. Down, girl.

Finally, the agent drew out the brown bottle. My hands were reaching for it.

“Is it liquid?” he asked. Holding up to the light, he peered at it.

“No,” I said quickly. “Nothing liquid, nothing dangerous at all. Just a perfectly harmless bottle.” Corked, sealed with wax, with another layer of duct tape wrapped over the wax for good measure. The agent studied the elaborate corking material with great suspicion. Not that I could blame him. But I so didn’t have time for this.

“Mind if I have a look inside this?”

I winced. Truth-or-consequences time. “Actually, I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll never be able to get it closed up just right again.” And wasn’t that the truth? This guy had no idea. If I said there was an evil djinn locked inside, he’d probably call the police.

He gave me the talking-to-crazy-people look. “There doesn’t seem to be anything in here.” To make his point, he gave the bottle a shake. I wanted to scream at him not to do that. What if it pissed the djinn off? Pissed him off more, anyway.

“Please. It shouldn’t be opened. It’s sealed like that for a reason.”

“Why? It’s not radioactive, is it?”

“It, uh, has the breath of Elvis inside?”

The expression on his face changed, subtly. The lines around his eyes grew softer, the hard edges of his frown vanished. It was a shift from a “dealing with crazy people” look to a “dealing with crazy but harmless people” look.

I’d take that.

He put the bottle in the little box, the little box in the big box, not bothering to arrange the packing or reseal the tape. He handed the box back to me, with crushed newspaper spilling out the top. “You folks have a nice flight.”

“Thank you,” I said around gritted teeth. Quickly, we retreated. I didn’t even pause to rearrange the packing. Time enough to do that while we waited to board—which was in about ten minutes, thanks to Mr. Vigilant.

“So,” Ben said. “That went well.”

I glared at him.

It was near dawn when Peter met us at Las Vegas’s McCarran Airport in Grant’s car. He seemed to be in a rush. Excited, at least. Positively gleeful, like a plan was coming together. We climbed into the car’s backseat.

“Is that it?” He nodded at the box.

“Yeah,” I said. “So what’s the plan? What’s Grant cooking up?”

Grinning, he shook his head. “I think Odysseus Grant is the freakiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s so cool.”

I glared. “You’re having way too much fun, Peter. What’s going on?”

“Grant said to tell you to just be ready with the jar.”

I hated all this man-of-mystery crap.

Even at this hour, Las Vegas was overstimulating. The Strip, the main street, home to all the mega hotel resorts and most of the crowds, was all lights, bleached slightly by the first hint of the rising sun. I had to squint against the glare. It was like a giant parade that had stalled in the desert.

We turned a corner, crossed the Strip, and continued toward a great concrete ziggurat.

Ben groaned. “We’re not going where I think we’re going.”

But yes, we were. The Hanging Gardens Hotel and Resort, home of the Balthasar, King of Beasts Show, now fronted by Nick, since were-lion Balthasar died in a blaze of silver-bulleted gunfire. Right before he tried to sacrifice me on his unholy fake altar. We were heading toward where this whole sleigh ride started.

Peter pulled into the drive and handed the keys to the valet parking guy. He barely broke stride while collecting his ticket, turning to us, and saying, “We need to hurry.”

“But what are we doing?”

“You’ll see.”

I held the box under one arm, and held Ben’s arm with the other, as we followed Peter. He walked briskly, almost jogging through the lobby and past the tourists and gamblers and noise. I was so focused I barely registered the area. I was in hunting mode, and the prey was in sight.

Peter led us to the King of Beasts theater, then to a side door. It was unlocked. We went in, and before us was the stage, just as it looked at the end of the show: torches, palm trees, vegetation dripping off the backdrop of a giant fake ziggurat, like we’d landed in some lost jungle temple. I’d seen the show—way up close. It was on this stage and setting that the cult of Tiamat had tried to kill me.

Now Odysseus Grant stood downstage center, next to a six-and-a-half-foot-high coffinlike box, painted black and covered with faded decorations, vines and flowers, arcane symbols. Part of his magic show, he put people inside and made them disappear. He always brought them back—during the show, at least.

I knew better than to ask how he’d managed to get the box here from his own theater at the Diablo Hotel, at least a mile away. Grant just did things.

Ben hadn’t seen any of this. He’d just heard the aftermath stories. He stopped halfway down the aisle and stared at the setting, agog.

“When I said this was fucked up, that was an understatement,” he said.

“Is that it?” Grant said to me, marching to the edge of the stage, reaching toward me. I fished the jar out of the box and handed it to him.

He held it up to the light, turning it, as if he could see through the mostly opaque glass. As if he could see anything inside. For all I knew, the ifrit had simply vanished and the jar was empty. Except for the way Tina had stared at it, and how carefully she handled it.

“Extraordinary,” Grant said softly. When he glanced at us, he was actually smiling. “Do you know what you’ve done here?”

I shrugged. “We weren’t trying to do anything fancy. I just wanted to keep my city safe.”

Peter had lingered by the theater door, and now slammed it shut. “They’re coming.”

“Get out of sight,” Grant said to us. We didn’t argue. Not that it would help; we were facing a vampire and a pack of lycanthropes. They’d be able to smell us. Peter waved us over to the far edge of the stage, where we could hide in the wings, at least for a little while. This was going to come down to the face-to-face battle I’d been hoping to avoid.

I whispered to Peter, “This is going to get ugly. You should get out of here, okay? I don’t want you to get tossed around or bitten.”

“Shh.” He didn’t promise. I decided that my first priority was going to have to be looking after him. Might not be the best policy. But I owed it to him—and his brother.

Downstage, Grant had opened the door to the box of vanishing and placed the ifrit’s jar inside.

A breath of cold passed through the theater, like an air conditioner had just come on. Then she was standing before the stage, looking up at him. I’d seen the woman only twice, once as part of Balthasar’s show, the dark priestess of a mock ceremony, and once as the real priestess, wielding a silver dagger over my heart. That time, I’d gotten a good look at her, a good smell of her, and knew she was a vampire. Now she was dressed in a black flowing gown, a robe wrapped around her, belted with gold. Her hair was long and loose down her back. She was like a statue, unbreathing, solid as stone. I swallowed back a growl. Ben squeezed my hand.

Her entourage accompanied her, a half-dozen young men who walked with graceful, easy strides and spread out around the theater, blocking the exits. They were handsome, decorative, and smug; they knew how gorgeous they were and knew how to show it off. The fur and wild smell of lycanthrope was thick around them. Their leader, Nick, stood at the top of the center aisle, gazing over the stage as if they’d already won.

I wasn’t sure Grant would be able to hold his own against the group.

“This is a trap,” the vampire, Farida, said, in a rich, clipped accent I couldn’t identify.

Flat on his palm, facing her, Grant held a cross. It wouldn’t stop her in an attack, but maybe it would make her hesitate. She stepped forward, moving to the side of the stage and a set of steps hidden there. Though she seemed to move slowly, she was on the stage in moments, approaching him. I blinked, sure I’d missed something.

Grant stood his ground and spoke as if placating a wild animal. “I’m only returning what belongs to you.”

She glanced at the jar with a look of distaste. “I do not want it. It has failed. As you will.”

“I should have done this a long time ago,” Odysseus Grant murmured.

I had to keep my breathing slow. I didn’t want to panic. Grant looked nervous, which made my heart sink. His lips were thin, his breathing was deep—I could see his chest moving. That cross wasn’t going to protect him if the vampire made a move.

He was drawing her in, waiting for, to her to get closer. I could almost see him counting, ticking off seconds as she stepped forward. She moved like she didn’t think his magic could hurt her, and I wondered if it was true, if there was a reason Grant had hidden himself away all this time rather than confronting her and stopping the cult earlier. For all his air of power, he was mortal.

She paid no attention to the box or the ifrit’s jar. Her gaze focused on him. A vampire’s gaze had power—all she had to do was make Grant look into her eyes, and she could immobilize him.

I crouched, getting ready to spring. I couldn’t defeat her, but I had to try. I couldn’t let her take down Grant. Ben put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed, holding me back like he knew what I was going to do.

Grant threw something to the floor at the base of the box, at the jar. A puff of smoke and sparks exploded around it. Special effects, I thought—a smoke bomb or explosive squib of some kind, a distraction. But the smoke spread, rose up, and from it emerged the outline of a figure, broad and hunched, licked all around with tongues of flame, rising from the broken jar.

I almost screamed, jumping forward and shouting a denial. All that work—we’d set a neighborhood on fire to capture that thing—and he just let it go. Ben held me back.

The ifrit clenched blurred, fiery fists, tipped its head back, and screamed, a sound like that of a flamethrower. Grant had vanished—probably not literally vanished, but had gotten well out of the way and out of sight. The demon hovering before the box had turned its rage toward the vampire—who took a step back.

We hadn’t been the first ones to capture the ifrit. Farida had trapped it first, then set it on us. The vampire priestess had used it as a tool, and now that it was free, it went for the closest target at hand. Blasting fire from its limbs, it reached for her, enveloped her—

Then something else reached for both of them.